


It's a Work In Progress

by tazure



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: M/M, an au of some sort i suppose, in which nobody even makes out but boys do make eyes at each other occasionally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 07:33:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11527530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tazure/pseuds/tazure
Summary: alternatively: Gavin's 10-step Program to Making a Fool of Yourself in Front of Your New Neighbor.





	It's a Work In Progress

**Author's Note:**

> nobody bangs in this story and it's told in the second person and those are two very good reasons i wouldn't blame you for backing out now

Here’s step one: absolutely do not fall in love with your new neighbor.

“Your mail keeps getting delivered to me,” he tells you, handing over a stack of envelopes that look suspiciously like they’ve been collecting for a while. He gives you a sheepish grin as you flip through them – ad, ad, bill, postcard from England – and you tell him not to worry about it.

“It happened with the last guy too.” you say, standing in the alleyway between your apartments, Number 2 776 West End Street and Number 2 775 West End Street. “They don’t realize there’s two Number 2’s.”

“You think they’d know by now,” he says, reaching up to push the hair out of his eyes. You don’t look at the gap of skin that appears under the hem of his shirt or the way his arm fills out his sleeve as he stretches. You look him dead in the eyes and agree yeah, they should know, it’s ridiculous is what it is.

You don’t stand there staring at his sky-blue eyes and square jaw and uneven smile without saying another word, and he doesn’t feel the need to clear his throat awkwardly and look away. You’re very charming and tell him a joke that he laughs at and remembers every time he glances at your door as he walks by. You don’t stammer out a nervous “Thanks, love,” and then slam your door in his face.

* * *

 

Here’s step two: pretend none of the above ever happened.

“I’m Ryan, by the way,” he tells you, holding up the package you saw on his doorstep earlier today.

You take the box and tell him your name and smile and give him another witty joke. You don’t nod furiously in silence and dig your fingernails into the cardboard.

“It’s Gavin, right?” he asks, and then gestures at your name on the package. “Sorry. That might be weird.”

You absolutely assure him it’s not weird. You don’t spurt out “Gavin,” like an idiot and then nod some more. Ryan clears his throat and shuffles his feet awkwardly. You offer your hand to him like a normal person, and balance the box on your hip like you’re capable of using your limbs in a coherent manner.

You absolutely, _definitely_ don’t jam your hand towards him and fumble the box so he has to jump forward and catch it.

You pretend not to notice the way his fingers brush yours as he saves you from about three hundred dollars worth of broken camera lenses. You’re pretty sure what happens next is that the two of you pause, fingers overlapping, staring into each other’s eyes while doves fly past and angels sing, and not that you jab him in the chest with your directed missile of a handshake.

You sputter some apologies. He’s very nice about having the wind punched out of him and tells you it’s fine, really, don’t worry about it.

You thank him for the package and slam the door in his face a second time.

* * *

 

Here’s step three: move.

You can’t move. You can’t afford to move.

* * *

 

Step four: pretend to move.

You leave the blinds down and refuse to turn on any lights. You tiptoe over the creaky floorboard in your own apartment. You live off tap water and Spaghetti-o’s.

You handle this like a mature adult human being.

* * *

 

Step five: forget about your mail.

He knocks on your door again six days later. You sneak up to the door and peer through the peep hole, recognize him, and then immediately jump out your back window and move back to England.

You don’t. You do entertain the fantasy for long enough that you see him glance over his shoulder and you start to feel bad. It’s not _his_ fault the mailman is flummoxed by basic numbers.

* * *

 

Step six: feel guilty for making his good deed take longer than it needs to and open the door.

You swing it open like a grown man and not a sheepish child. He smiles at you. You forget what you’re doing for a second.

“Hey,” he says, like you didn’t try and break his ribs last time the two of you spoke, “I, uh, well,”

He holds the mail out to you. You take it, silently, doing your best not to brush his fingers with your fingers.

“Do you know someone in England?”

You struggle to remember what England is for a moment.

You tell him yes. You tell him you have family from England and you moved here two years ago and you love it but you get homesick sometimes and your family writes to you but you never get a chance to write back and you feel a bit bad about that, really, but postage is expensive.

You tell him this in a normal tone of voice and not at the speed of light at a pitch that could shatter windows. He laughs. His eyes crinkle up when he laughs.

You choke out a thank you and slam the door in his face again.

You assume he’s used to it.

* * *

 

Step seven: realize you haven’t received your own mail in two weeks.

No ads. No junk mail. No bills.

No postcards from England.

You figure it’s all still getting funneled to Ryan, but you haven’t even seen him. You assume he’s sick of getting punched and stammered at and having doors slammed on him and is just tossing it immediately.

You should probably just go knock on his door or something.

* * *

 

Step eight: knock on his door.

Absolutely. You absolutely do that.

* * *

 

Step nine: piss about like the child you are.

You don’t knock on his door. You live a life of fear and isolation and duck your head every time you have to walk past Ryan’s window on your way to the dumpster. You check your mailbox in the dead of night, when there’s no chance of running into him, because you’re a coward and you’re not afraid to admit it.

Your mailbox is always empty. The postal gods do not ever and will not ever smile on you. You consider for an entire minute and a half, staring at the back of your empty mail slot, calling up the post office and complaining. You really, genuinely consider it, for like, a significant portion of two minutes.

* * *

 

Step ten: act like a grownup for once in your life.

You wake up one morning, decide enough is enough, and march over to Ryan’s door to demand your missing mail back.

You absolutely don’t do that. You wake up at noon to a harried voicemail from your mother informing you that she sent a card _ages_ ago and you haven’t mentioned it and she’s worried it got lost and it had _money_ in it, because she can’t imagine your photography business is going well enough to buy proper food and she doesn’t want you going _hungry_.

You slink across the alley to the other Number 2 door, praying that Ryan is out working like a normal person and won’t answer, and you can just leave a note or something.

You work yourself up for a few minutes, convince yourself he’s not home, and knock.

Ryan opens the door immediately.

“Hi,” he says, when you say nothing.

You say something back. You say anything. Words come out of your mouth and they have meaning and get your point across without you sounding like a lunatic.

“Mail,” you gurgle. Ryan looks surprised for a second, almost like a scrawny unshaven photographer has crawled onto his doorstep and barked gibberish at him.

“Oh!” he says, like any of this has made any sense to him, and waves you inside.

He steps back from the door and he’s wearing shorts and no shoes and he’s ushering you into his apartment like it’s perfectly normal.

You go inside Ryan’s apartment.

It is exactly like yours. His blinds are open and the layout is the same but his furniture is arranged slightly differently, which you learn by immediately stumbling into a chair. Ryan asks if you’re alright.

“I’ve got it in here,” he says, ushering you through the living room, “I keep meaning to bring it to you but it…seemed like you didn’t want to be bothered.”

The things you would give to make Ryan bother you more often. Ryan shuffles the small collection of letters and postcards together on his kitchen table and offers it to you. You scramble to take hold of it all without dumping it on the floor immediately.

“Do you want a drink, or something?” Ryan asks you, when you don’t move. You like to think you look at him thoughtfully while you consider it, but you’re pretty sure he can tell you’re just squinting at him to see how badly he’d just like you to leave.

“Sure,” you manage, finally, after an uncomfortably long silence. Ryan smiles at you again and ducks around the kitchen table, bare feet slapping the tile as he walks. You clutch your bundle of mail awkwardly while he roots around in his refrigerator.

“I’ve got Diet Coke, and…that’s it, actually.” He looks apologetic, for reasons beyond you. “Water, I guess.”

“Diet Coke’s fine.” It’s maybe the most normal sentence you’ve said to him ever. Ryan passes you a can, and for a moment you struggle to do the mental gymnastics involved in taking it without dropping your mail all over his floor. You settle for setting it down on the table again and taking the can in both hands, to avert disaster.

You clutch it to your chest like a gift. Ryan stares at you indecipherably for a moment and then seems to come back to himself, glancing around the kitchen like he’s suddenly self-conscious.

“Sorry it’s a mess in here,” he tells you. You manage to drag your eyes away from the line of his jaw to look around for yourself. There’s dishes in the sink. A used towel on the counter.

It’s hard to believe it’s the same layout as yours. You’ve never seen so much of the open countertop before.

“Are you a photographer?” Ryan asks you, while you’re comparing mental swatches to his floor tiles. You look up, astonished, and Ryan’s cheeks have the audacity to go pink. “I uh…I tried not to read anything,” he says, gesturing at the letters on the table, “but I guess I-“

“Yes.” you blurt out. Ryan nods and studies his own kitchen table.

You come up with a clever plan to get him to look at you so you can see his vivid blue eyes again. You say something fun and witty that breaks the tension and makes him want to invite you back over and spend time together.

“Not of weens.” is what you actually say.

What you _meant_ to say was a flirtatious joke about nudes, or something, but this is what you’ve come out with. Spectacular. You’ll die alone and this is why.

Regardless, it makes Ryan look at you. For a minute or two he just stands there in stunned silence, while you look at him in shock of your own mouth and he probably considers asking you to leave.

Ryan laughs. You want to die. Possibly in a good way, you haven’t decided yet, but you’re hoping very hard the end is coming for you soon.

“No?” Ryan prompts, still grinning.

“Nah,” you say, aiming for casual. Like you absolutely meant to say everything you’ve said. If there was a wall nearby to lean on you would, and it would look very cool. You’d seem funny and blasé and it would be sexy. “I don’t do people.”

“That’s a shame,” Ryan says, lips twitching. You consider the double entendre and decide to lean into it. “I’ve been needing new headshots.”

You start to crack open the soda as his words filter through your nervous brain.

“You _what_ ,” you start, as the soda foams up and spills over your hand. You give a very dignified yelp and jump away from your own hands, sloshing soda onto the floor. Ryan hurries forward to grab the can from you before you can make a mess of his entire kitchen.

“Sorry! Sorry, some of them are shaken up, I guess.” He sets the can aside on the counter and grabs the dirty dishtowel to pat against your wet shirt. He lasts about a minute before he seems to realize what he’s doing and shoves the towel into your hand instead.

You wipe yourself down uselessly. Already your shirt’s sticking to you and you can feel it soaking down into your underwear.

“You need headshots?” you ask, very calmly, trying to pretend there’s not soda soaking into your crotch right now.

“No, I- no, that was a joke.” he says, rubbing his neck nervously. “I haven’t done modeling since high school.”

“Really?” you ask, obviously surprised.

“Yeah, well,” he clears his throat. “I was a lot cuter then, I guess.”

“But you’ve got a good jawline,” you tell him seriously, setting the rag aside so you can take said jawline in your hands and turn him to the side, “from here, with a soft light, maybe.”

“Maybe I should let you take those headshots,” he mumbles around your hand. You let go of him and he rubs his chin.

“Maybe you should.” you tell him firmly. You pat yourself down and fish your wallet out of your pocket. It’s a little wet, but you manage to fish out an unmarred business card to hand over. “Here. But, ah,” you add, getting nervous again, “that’s my personal number, too.”

“Thanks.” Ryan says, and takes the card. You nod and scrape your mail up off his kitchen table. He gets the picture and shoves the card in his pocket as he follows you to his front door. “It was…uh, nice to see you again.”

“Yeah.” you agree. He opens the door for you and you step out into the alleyway between your apartments. “So, uh…call me.”

There’s a moment of silence. You wonder if maybe you’ve misread the situation.

“’kay,” Ryan stammers, finally. You stare at him for a fraction of a second longer, while his face goes through several different shades of red, and then he slams the door on you.

* * *

 

Step ten and a half: successfully seduce someone for the first time in your life.

You fight back a grin in case he’s still watching you through the blinds and turn back to your apartment.

You trip on the way inside and dump your mail onto your floor.

You decide to just leave it there.

**Author's Note:**

> and then they did bone. they absolutely did bone after all that.


End file.
